


Rare Pair Challenge

by clusband



Series: Rare Pairs [3]
Category: Hiveswap, Homestuck
Genre: Drabble Collection, Multi, Other, Rare Pairings, challenge, minifics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-07-30 21:10:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 4,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20103670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clusband/pseuds/clusband
Summary: A collection of ficlets, as inspired by my rare pair generators or prompted on my tumblr. Prompts will be in the summaries!





	1. Marvus/Lanque- Red Rom

**Author's Note:**

> Generators can be found here- I made them myself :)  
All charas (excluding Elwurd, includes Cirava and Charun): https://perchance.org/q3sothu0t4  
F/F (no Cirava, no Charun): https://perchance.org/85rkpkzabv  
M/M (no Cirava, no Charun): https://perchance.org/juqdai3q7j  
__  
This was a challenge for me to write some characters I'm not super familiar with, and also to write rare pairs which are my favorite! Please feel free to tag me if you use these generators!! I'm a sucker for a good rare pair.  


**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Lazy morning kisses before they’ve even opened their eyes, still mumbling half-incoherently, not wanting to wake up || Optional Quadrant: Red || Cw: suggestive, blood

The moons ain’t even all the way up before your brain starts with the buzzing. Contrary to popular belief, you’re an early riser. With the schedule you keep, sleeping in gets you sweating like a sinner with the wicked wigglies in your guts. Call that shit anxiety or some such.

As you go for the stretch, you notice you got somebody else with you. Warm hands press at your chest in the most impersonal fucking snuggle you’ve ever felt. Manicured nails press into your skin- the sharp tips saying ‘keep the fuck away’ but the smooth edges saying ‘I’m an uptight bitch.’ You ain’t even gotta catch a gander- no doubt in your mind, that’s your mans. You nuzzle your nose right into his hair- smells like dank cave covered up by dry shampoo. He says something, a sound somewhere between a grouch, a rouse, and a word. You make the noise back at him, fondly mocking.

He wakes up slowly. You wait on him with all of the patience of a stage- empty and waiting for direction. As his subconscious catches up to the world, his hands come alive. He searches for you, sliding his hands up your chest, around your neck, then into your hair. He presses his lips to your neck, and you hum at him in sleepy contentment. Then he bites you.

Doesn’t hurt, hardly even startles you. Something sad and lonely twisted in you revels in this intimacy, the closeness that comes from a taste of your own blood on his tongue.

“C’mon on now boo knock that shizz off we both know you ain’t no rainbow drinker got damn,” you finally open your eyes, gently pushing him off of you so that you can press him back into the coon.

“And this certainly isn’t purple drank,” he mouths into your neck. You can feel the slick, cold thrill of his lips moving the blood around your skin. Feels nasty. Feels dirty. “But here you are, letting me bite you, and here I am, enjoying it.”

Well. Can’t argue with that logic seeing as it ain’t no logic at all. You kiss him instead. Your blood is bitter and metallic in your mouth. His lips are brighter than gilded fucking gold beneath you.

You can’t help but smile at him when you pull away. What a righteous way to start a night.

And when he smiles back at you- the challenging quirk of his brow, the smug tilt of his grin- he has your blood in his teeth.


	2. Skylla/Stelsa- Pale Rom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skylla, Stelsa || Prompt: Plucking a fallen leaf from the other’s hair || Optional Quadrant: Pale

Her breath at your temple is warm where her hand in yours is cool.

It’s one of those autumn days that everyone dreams about but rarely sees. The moons are bright and warm above you, the wind is fond at your back and through your hair. But Stelsa’s laugh beside you is brighter and warmer than that.

She runs her hands through Sabastian’s mane again, and he wiggles his lip in pleasure. And she laughs and she laughs and you couldn’t stop yourself from joining her if you tried.

“I think he likes you,” you say, as you encourage her to gently place her foot in the stirrup. You hold her, balancing her by the hip, holding her steady at her back. Your Stelsa is strong, balanced, and she’s up and over before you know it. If your horse feels her weight at all, he doesn’t let on. Lazy boy. 

“You have to give him his head, and he’ll move,” you instruct, guiding her left hand that holds the reins forward, up his neck some.

She lets out a delighted ‘Oh!’ as he finally starts to move forward. You walk alongside them for the moment.

“You know how to drive a car?” you ask.

“Of course I do! I can drive stick and manual and oh Skylla I have to tell you about this one time I got stuck in traffic-” she startles as Sebastian shakes his head. Good boy- it’s not that you don’t want to hear her story, it’s just that you want her to focus on making new memories for once.

“Well, the reins are like a gear shift. Move up some and you’ll switch into second. _If_ you feel ready.”

This was a mistake. Stelsa was hatched ready. Stelsa will always move forward. But she’s only been riding for a minute and you should have warned her about Sebastian’s rough trot.

She’s on the ground so quickly that you’re stunned- you were certain that sort of thing is one of those “seen in slow motion” sort of memories. 

When you reach her, though, she seems mostly unharmed. In fact, she’s laughing like the devil came home, holding her gut and smiling so hard the teal’s come into her cheeks. You grab her by the hand, intent on pulling her up, but she pulls you down into the leaves with her.

Your breath leaves your body as your back hits the ground, and your breath leaves your body some more as she pulls you into laughter with her. Her laugh is bubbly and loud and so genuine you kind of want to bust out your guitar and play some music to accompany it.

But you don’t. Instead, when you settle down some, you grab her hand and watch the clouds together. For once, she’s still. Quiet. You look over to her and her features are soft, relaxed. Her eyes close sleepily, and they stay closed for one beat. Two beats. Three.

Slowly, gently, you run your hand through her hair. You remove a few leaves that got stuck in the strands, and decide to replace them with your hat.

“How was my first ride?” she asks you, peeking one eye open at you.

You lean down and kiss her softly on the nose.

“Everyone starts somewhere,” you say.


	3. Nihkee/Remele- Red Rom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nihkee, Remele || Prompt: The taste of salt on the tip of your tongue || Optional Quadrant: Red

You suppose it would take a lot of strength to stand in one position for so long. You can’t believe you took so long to ask Nihkee to pose for you.

“Would you minde,” you start, wiggling the handle of your brush up and down at her, “standing juste a little taller?”

She stands taller. Her smile is proud, triumphant. 

You look toward your canvas, at the first pass of your brush on the blank off-white of it. Something is missing, something you caught in her at the beginning of this painting that she no longer has.

“Hmm. No, that’s not it.” You sigh. She lowers her posture some- and she’s still so damn intimidating!

“Maybe… Could you give me this expressione?” You do your best imitation of the one on the canvas. She gives you the same smile she’s been giving you. “No, looque, like this.” You exaggerate the expression some more.

She resets her face before smiling, this time with her eyebrows drawn up. You stare at her. Hmm. Almost.

“Is this right sister?” she hisses through clenched teeth.

“No,” you say. And she deflates, abandoning her pose completely.

“How about,” you come up to her, moving her arms the way you want. Yes, that’s good. You grab her by the shoulder and twist her at the spine a little. She’s putty beneath your hands. “...hmmm.”

“I could try looking at the painting,” she starts, before you cut her off with a horrified ‘No!’

You step back. You look at her. You look at your painting. It’s still not what you’re looking for.

“I juste can’t seem to get it righte,” you let the frustration bleed through your voice, stomping your foot to really get your point across. You don’t care that you’re whining. You know that Nihkee is more than happy to help you find a solution. She lives for that shit.

“Maybe try retracing your steps. Sometimes the road block is in the mind,” she relaxes, flexing and stretching. Retracing your steps, huh? Well when you first got home… a lightbulb goes off over your head.

You approach her once more. You ignore her pose, letting her arms fall where they may, letting her spine twist where ever she’s comfortable. 

She gives you this look- it’s the placid sort of look that all bluebloods make at lower castes, but tinged red a little bit. Affectionate, you might even say. She’s such a brute, honestly.

You reach up to her face, trailing your fingers along her jaw. You reach up, standing all the way on your tip-toes. And you kiss her once on the cheek.

Her face is sweaty- maybe posing for that long is harder work than you thought.

But still, her face has the exact expression you were looking for. Fond. Longing. Bashful. You can give the small minutiae of her expression name, now that you’re feeling it yourself. No wonder she’s your muse.

When you lick your lips, the salt of her sweat is heavy on your tongue. 


	4. Konyyl/Marsti- Pitch Rom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Konyyl, Marsti || Prompt: "I can tell you’re pissed off." || Optional Quadrant: Pitch || Cw: suggestive, blood, implied violence

You can hear her from miles away. The stomp of her boots. Her clawed gauntlets scratching at your door. Her loud guffaws as she talks on her palm husk. Pitch raises up, harsh and acrid in your throat like bile.

But you know better than to react. When she steps into your hive, she gets blood all over the floor. She puts her palm husk down on a pile of books and knocks them all to the ground. Then she pretends that was on purpose, like she’s trying to make you mad.

So you keep on with the stoicism. Brutish, hulking Konyyl. If she thought you’d mind a mess, she was wrong.

“It’s nice to see you too,” she sneers. And you thought your smearspinner was loud and obnoxious.

“If you’re trying to make my hive a biohazard, you should know that I’m intimately familiar with biohazard containment and cleaning procedure,” this is the least sexy thing you could say to her, and you watch her simultaneously get frustrated with you and listen for any subtly in your voice that may betray anger, irritation, anything. But she’ll find nothing. Because you aren’t mad.

And that makes _her_ mad. You see frustration rear it’s hot and vile head in her, through her tense posture, and in the wrinkle on her nose. She’s looking for a reaction. You decide that you’ll never give it to her.

“What’s wrong?” you lower your voice at her, mocking as you lift up your goggles to get a better look at her. She’s filthy- sweaty from her hard work and covered in the blood and detritus of somebody who never knew better than to stay out of her way. “Usually you have so much to spew,” you reach out as if to wipe away some brain matter from the front of her shirt. She grabs you by the wrist, quiet for once. It seems she’s playing your game, now. Winning this battle of wills is inevitable.

With your win so close, you let yourself relax. You want to enjoy this, too.

As slowly as you can, you lean into her space, a self-satisfied smile so smug on your face that you feel almost greasy with it.

“You can talk to me Konyyl,” you breathe at her lips, a mockery of a kiss. “I can tell you’re pissed off.”

But when she kisses you, you no longer know who’s winning. 


	5. Lanque/Chahut- Pitch Rom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lanque, Chahut || Prompt: The relief of fatalistic recklessness || Optional Quadrant: Pitch || Cw: alcohol, suggestive

At parties like these, clowns seem so tame that they almost fade into the background.

Every one is whooping and cheering. Every one is feeling the vibes. So when one clown catches your eye, you know something fun is about to happen.

She’s nearly 7 feet tall with tits bigger than your head. Her hair is in dire need of a trim- at the least- but her face paint is immaculate. She stares at you. You stare back, challenging. 

And you dance. When the beat is slow, you shake just a little faster. When the beat speeds up, you slow it down. Everything is going according to your whim tonight. You’re on top of the world.

Maybe some might call you an exhibitionist, but can you help it? You truly believe that, with a face this pretty, you deserve to be watched. Seen. Witnessed, even.

She makes this face at you, this ‘that’s cute’ kind of face. What the fuck is her problem? You glare at her, and grind on the nearest banister. Yeah, that will show her.

You’re very drunk. It’s almost a relief to feel this way- wild and uninhibited with the knowledge that you’ll never see these trolls again. It’s almost like freedom. It’s mostly like death.

When she comes up behind you, her claws sharp in the skin of your hip, a rush of adrenaline rushes through you. She gets you even more off beat. She makes her own music in your head, bending low to hum and beat-box in your ear.

To be perfectly fair to her, she’s a pretty good dancer. All clowns are, you guess, but she’s toning down the sexuality that most clowns might be exhibiting. You wonder if you look pathetic to her.

As if she can read your thoughts, she bites you teasingly on the ear. The blood that rushes to your face has nothing to do with the pain.

“Come on now, pretty boy, let’s get this party started,” she grabs you by the hips again, forcing you to mimic that grind you did on the banister back against her. She hums low in your ear, appreciative.

You were right the first time- everything is going according to your whim. And now, you’re at hers.


	6. Tagora/Remele- Pitch Rom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tagora, Remele || Prompt: Finding old photographs you’d forgotten about || Optional Quadrant: Pitch

You have him in your sights again. 

Tagora does the most damage in the shadows- with the right word, the right path open in front of him, the world revolves around his whimsy, his schemes. It’s really in everyone’s best interest that you keep an eye on him.

He lingers in front of a group of clowns, clearly not part of their group but doing nothing to hide his disdain for their mess. So when his eye meets yours, you let him see you watching him. Really, he’s too pitiful a sight to leave to his own devices here.

He approaches you with the slow swagger of a man with too much money in his pockets. A troll with a tray of drinks walks past him, and he’s quick and graceful in the way he takes two glasses of champagne. Bougie bitch.

“Remele,” he greets you like an old friend as he hands you a glass. “I was hoping to find you here.” He wipes his hand on his jacket before holding it out to you. Smart move- he looks as polite as anyone else to the untrained eye. But you know him better. He wouldn’t be talking to you if he wasn’t after something.

You twirl your finger through the condensation on the glass, holding it up to the light as if to inspect it’s quality. 

“Gorjek,” you finally reply, dragging your cold, wet finger up his palm, before clasping him for the handshake. You notice the goosebumps that raise on the expose part of his wrist. You can almost see the hair on his head standing up in discomfort. You don’t say anything else, because you don’t need to. Tagora’s got this nasty habit of needing to cut to the chase, fill the silence. 

You smirk when he does just that.

“Actually, it’s so funny,” he subtly adjusts his sleeve, wiping his damp palm on the cuff of it. “I was going through these old pictures I have- such fond memories!” 

What is he getting at?

“As a matter of fact, one in particular caught my eye,” he fishes around in his breast pocket. You recognize the image immediately- a security camera caught footage of you stealing a painting out of that hoity-toity blue blood circle jerk museum. It was a ghastly painting then, and it’s a ghastly photo he holds now, if only for the heaps of trouble it could land you in. You thought that got lost in the legal process.

Your face must pale, for his gets immeasurably smugger. He smiles at you, leading you away with a hand on your shoulder, and all you can see are the jagged edges of his teeth.


	7. Boldir/Azdaja- Red Rom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boldir, Azdaja || Prompt: A hoarse whisper: “kiss me” || Optional Quadrant: Red || Cw: blood, death

Her blood is lukewarm against your chest, her breath weak. Wheezing. Withering.

It takes one psionic blast to bring down the architectural supports that hold up the church. Takes two obliterated supports to leave your pursuers in confusion. And when you blast the fuck out of there, you know tonight was a failure.

Damn it, you should have taken her lead.

“Azdaja,” she starts, and you realize she’s never been up so high, here in the cold pressure of the atmosphere. You slow down, descending gently. You wipe her blood on your jacket as you set her down in a lonely alley between two of the loudest clubs on Alternia. The noise will keep you safe. The noise will keep people away. 

The stale wind that winds its way through the alley is too soft in the tousle of her hair. Too final. Her eyes have closed in peace, but she isn’t dead. She won’t die, you feel certain of it. You have to be. Certainty is going to get you through this. The both of you.

“Azdaja,” she says again, and, though her voice raw, hoarse with shouting, her tone is low. You give her your undivided attention.

The planes of her face are lit up in shades of your blue and cyan. Even the bloody gash on her throat looks unreal. The bump of the bass around you feels as anxious as the thumping of your heart. But her blood pumps out of her neck in time with a different beat.

“Kiss me,” she says, half-opening her eyes. She’s not scared.

You lean into her. As your nose brushes hers, you stop, savor the moment of her breath mingling with yours. She may not be scared, but you are.

You kiss her. You wind your fingers through her hair desperately. You breathe into her, everything you have.

But when you pull away, she’s still dying.


	8. Folykl/Tegiri- Pale Rom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tegiri, Folykl || Prompt: The smell of ozone during a storm || Optional Quadrant: Pale

You thought the empty sockets of her eyes might be a little more, you know. Epic.

Instead, they’re just empty.

“I can tell…. that you’re staring at……….. me,” she grouses at you from her place on the floor.

“A true shinobi fears nothing,” you retort, crossing your arms over your chest. She snorts at you.

“Is that so,” she starts, making her slow way up. She reaches out for you- you grab her hand.

The minute your skin makes contact with hers, every cell from fingertip to heart starts buzzing. A metallic, acrid smell fills the air. She’s illuminated now, not physically, but spiritually. You can almost see her chakra, bright and burning unending.

But just as suddenly, it’s gone. And the empty sockets of her eyes are nothing more than that.


	9. Damara/Horuss Breakup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Word was 'ignipotent,' presiding over fire.

You lit him up twice, and you light him up one last time.

The first time was the click of your lighter, his soft inhale as he tentatively sucks down the smoke of your cigarette. You watch your breath disturb the hair around his face. You’re close. You’re so close you could kiss him. You look down to his lips; they’re thin, stained blue from his bad habit of biting on them. You look up to his eyes; they’re watery, wha-

He explodes into a spluttering cough, laughing as the smoke leaves his lungs, right into your face.

“Fiddlesticks, Dam, I don’t know how you do that,” he’s still laughing. You take your cigarette back from between his fingers, pulling smoke. You kiss him then, blowing your smoke into his mouth.

This time, he doesn’t cough.

* * *

The second time you light him up is from within. It’s your two wipe anniversary- he didn’t even know you could celebrate so early! Hey, you’re turning a new leaf. Maybe kindness and consideration become you after all.

You watch him tear open your small gift- a framed pressing of a flower that he got you on your first date. He smiles with his whole body, the power and shine of it raising him off his heels. Emotion shines in his eyes as he turns to face you. Fire warms his lips as he kisses you on both cheeks.

He doesn’t get you anything for your three wipe anniversary.

* * *

Flames lick around the first picture of him, then around your stupid, pressed flower. It’s not really hot, not the way it was when you were alive, but the pictures burn anyway, and maybe it’s because you will them to with such a fury that it burns painfully within you. Maybe this is the benefit of being dead, remembering what it was like to be alive, and being able to distance yourself from that.

But your tears in your eyes burn worse than even that. 


	10. Marsti/Ardata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Word was 'messaline,' a soft lightweight silk with a satin weave.

You may not know highbloods, but you know a mess when you see one.

At first glance, she seems snobbish. Her head held high as if she could ever look down her nose at you, her horns bright and polished that suggests meticulous and expensive self grooming. You ignore her.

But as she passes you by, her skirt billows in the breeze. It billows enough to brush your hand, like a memory you can’t quite remember. Soft, lightweight messaline- a comfort fabric, too soft and too lightweight for every day living. 

You stop, watching her leave. Something caught you, you want to figure out what it is. But she catches you looking, and she stops, too.

“What?” you ask her. 

“Hm?” She smiles a cruel smile, bringing her hand to her chin in condescending disgust. “Oh? Did you think I was stopping for you?” She lets out a peal of laughter at the thought. “That’s cute.” She smirks. 

She turns on her heel, but you notice her subtly turn her head, searching for your reaction.

You smile and wave. 

What a piece of work.


	11. AraFefNep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Word was 'cafune,' the act of running your fingers through the hair of someone you love.

It’s not every day you get to feel like the heiress.

But with so much work sitting precariously on your shoulders- the rebellions and the dissenters and the fate of the entire empire and _your_ actions, _your_decisions- it’s not every day you want to _be_ the heiress, either. 

Nepeta smiles up at you from her place on the floor, her fingers stained with- well, you can only hope it’s ink as she sketches in her book. She gives you an impish smile as you shift in your seat, stretching your legs out in front of you.

“The mighty huntress would like to remind you to sit still!”

You sit still. Nepeta goes back to sketching. Aradia hums from behind you, continuing to untangle the knots in your hair. You flex your neck, rubbing out the tension and wondering how they both do it, the errands you send them on and the weight that comes from being within the heiress’s inner circle. 

“Didn’t you hear her?” Aradia’s calloused hands are around your shoulders, shaking out the tension. “Sit still!” she half reprimands, half laughs into your ear.

It’s a relief, to not have to sit through soft hands and soft words at a time like this. It makes you feel alive in a way you never knew how to before. You start laughing as Aradia shakes you, letting every unladylike snort reverberate through the room, relishing in the sounds and feelings of fun, real fun, for the first time in months. 

Aradia’s hands leave your hair as she pushes you forward, out of your chair. You let out a shriek as, now defenseless, you’re pounced on by Nepeta. She smears ink all over your shoulders as Aradia gracefully floats down to sitting.

You close your eyes as you find the ends of Aradia’s hair- and Nepeta is chewing on your nice jacket like she’s stripping a carcass, but you don’t mind. You rub Aradia’s coarse hair between your fingers and just sit still for a moment, existing in a world where being the heiress isn’t so bad.


	12. Roxy/ Darkleer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Word was 'cruore,' it literally means “flowing blood.”

Your arms strain as you pull the bow taut. Your own blood roars in your ears, the tension of the bowstring humming in tune with your soft exhale as you focus. A single flex of your fingers and-

_SNAP!_

It’s all a blur; your face heats up then cools as your blood flows from the gash left behind by your bowstring. Your bow lies, broken for now, at your feet. 

You grit your teeth, frustrated._ Patience_, you tell yourself. It’s something new you’re trying, now might be the time to see if it’s worth it.

You pick up your bow to asses the damage. There’s not much- a small chip in the wood, a broken string. Easy fixes. Nothing to be mad about. You sit yourself down at your work bench and you fix your bow in small, easy steps. Cut away your broken string. Sand down the wood. Stain and repolish. It’s soothing in it’s rhythm.

Your reverie is broken by a small, warm hand to your tense shoulders. 

“That’s the piss-poorest bow I’ve ever seen,” Roxy beside you. You want to bristle, but her hand is so warm and soothing on your shoulder that you have to reconsider. You reassess your bow, the uneven stain and the horrible job you did re-knotting the string. You turn your face down to hide your embarrassed laugh. She’s right.

Her hand is on your face as your laugh dies down- you suppose it’s very polite of her to wait until you were finished laughing. She runs her thumb along your cheek and pulls her fingers away, stained blue. Oh, shoot, you forgot about that.

“You know, I’ve never heard you ask for help,” she says, rummaging through her pockets and coming up with a scrap of a napkin, covered in calculus and drawings of little cats, all in blue ink. 

“And yet, help is here,” you attempt to joke with her. Her whole face scrunches up as she smiles, every feature endeavoring to meet her nose right in the center. 

“I’m about to be so helpful in this bitch, you don’t even know.” She swipes the napkin on your cheek. “Like a god damn doctor with a degree in ass kicking.” You cringe at her language, but she carries on. “Like, am I going to wipe you off here, or am I about to wipe you _out_?” She holds her hands up in a parody of a bad East Alternian martial arts movie, before winking once at you.

She carries on. You don’t even notice that she’s stopped wiping at your face to continue her monologue. Is this how humans get personal with each other? By getting… wordy? You suppose you should share something with her, too.

“Bluebloods are expected to be competent,” you lace your sentence with shades of meaning. You know she’s smart enough to pick up on them. 

And she does. She softens from scalp down to heel, giving you the sort of sympathetic look that gives you butterflies in your gut.

“Yeah, I get that,” she starts, crumpling and uncrumpling her bloody napkin in her hands. You take it away from her- some doctor she is, not knowing standard biohazard containment procedure. “I’m not good at asking for help either. It’s like you said- I’m expected to be competent too. My own friends rarely even believe me when I tell them about what I’ve been through. So I pick up my own slack, and I pick up theirs, too.” You make a sympathetic noise at her, and she looks up at you through her lashes, smiling the sad sort of smile that reminds you that no, humans get much, _much_ more personal than that. It’s not about the words, but the content. Of course.

“Perhaps,” you start, then lead her into an awkward silence as you consider what to say. You cough once.

“Perhaps you’d like to show me how your rifle works,” if your bow isn’t going to be fixed tonight, then you’d like to practice accuracy with something.

That light from before comes back. She sits straighter, energy and excitement running through her like a current. 

“Yes!” she beams at you. “Yes yes yes yes!” She pulls you up- no small feat, considering your larger size.

That current of energy runs straight through her, then through your joined hands until you’re smiling, too.


End file.
